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An Off Day or a Day Off?
A brief respite from working, in the form of a 300-word whinge.
I’d always imagined the process of writing to be like speeding down an Italian coastal road in a convertible, hair flying in the wind, sun shining on my face.
But it’s actually more like trying to drive a beat up manual (stick shift for any US readers) with an oil leak over a road full of potholes. The engine stops and starts, splutters and stutters until the car meanders out of control into a row of garbage bins.
I’m not exaggerating the analogy. Trying to entice that first sentence that will set the tone for the rest of the paragraph — which in turn sets the tone for the rest of the article — sets my teeth in a grit. I swear I feel my hair turning grey(er).
There are just so many more productive things I could be doing. Important things. I haven’t cleaned the house for a while. Was it last month already? The cat’s litter needs changing. And I’m running out of groceries.
But the article must be finished today. I dig deep, delving into my resistant torpid brain cells. I really should go for a walk, clear my head. But that seems more challenging than sitting staring at the computer. I’d have to get dressed. And it’s cold.
